


The Secrets

by Josephine_Mikaelson



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bakery, Death, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mystery, Short, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-29 03:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josephine_Mikaelson/pseuds/Josephine_Mikaelson
Summary: I wrote these short stories for an English class assignment that a friend helped convince me to post here. Feel free to give me criticism, I'm no talented author. They are my own ideas I spent time writing so please don't steal, though I'm not a good writer I am proud of my stories.Thank you for giving my short stories a chance and feel free to use your imagination when reading.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, original - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	1. Authors Note

I've started reading on AO3 but have yet to try making my own book so I apologize if I'm a bit slow. I'm a quick learner though so I should figure it out quickly

The three short stories are those which I wrote for an English assignment where we either picked or created our own prompts. I branched off of prompts from the internet and images to create my own stories. 

If these are similar to anything else feel free to let me know but they are my own ideas. I purposely didn't add much dialogue because I'm not good at writing it and can never make it feel natural so it is up to you, the audience, to imagine the story's dialogue however you want. Feel free to expand your imagination and use it to fill the dialogue. 

Please do not judge me if there are spelling or grammar mistakes that I may not have caught. If you see something that doesn't seem correct leave a polite note to let me know and I'll fix it if I see fit. 

Thank you so much for giving these short stories a chance.

Once again I'm not good at writing stories but I was proud of these stories, they're kind of my babies, and I wanted to give them a chance to see if anyone would be interested in reading them. I do own these stories so please do not copy them and if anyone copies them please let me know.

I highly doubt anyone would ever read these but if you are thank you for giving these stories a chance and have a good day!


	2. Part 1: The Dress that Turned Back Time

Ever since I was a little girl I've loved 1800s dresses. My grandmother had 1800s dolls that she collected ever since she was a child. My mother thought they were creepy so when my grandmother asked to get me my own doll my mother denied the thought, claiming she didn't want me to get nightmares. My grandmother settled for the Marie-Grace Gardner and Cécile Rey American Girl dolls. I remember catching a glimpse of them when looking for my grandmother's famous chocolate chunk cookies and when my birthday came around I ripped off the cat wrapping paper, so excited to have my own dolls. After that day I never went anywhere without both of my dolls until I was fourteen and my mother took them away, telling me I wouldn't grow up to be like my grandmother. To this day I don't know what she did with them, I just hoped she gave them to someone else instead of throwing them out. I cried for weeks after that day, I even called my mother Satan and tried calling CPS, but my mother didn't care and said I would thank her when I got older. If only she knew how wrong she was.

My grandmother has been living on her own for as long as I could remember as she never did marry, always claimed she was waiting for her prince charming to arrive. She said she wanted a love story like my ancestor Emilia Margaret Johnson, a story that had been passed through the family for generations. It was said to be that her husband was sent to war but he didn't come back alive, Emilia cried for months after the news and never spoke to another man. My grandmother had a dress made like the one Emilia wore in the last picture she had with her husband. I remember staring into the picture for hours as a child, mesmerized by the color, lace, and embroidery. It was always my favorite dress from the early 1800s, I'd imagine myself twirling in it like I was getting dolled up for my own suitor. Earlier today I had picked it up from my grandmother's house after hours of talking over tea and crumpets.

As soon as I returned home I grabbed the box that held the breathtaking dress and rushed upstairs to my room. I carefully pulled it out of the large box, not wanting to damage any of the hard work done, and placed it on my queen bed. After changing into the creme and blush pink dress I did a little twirl, smiling and giggling. I went to turn around and admire the dress but when I looked into the mirror I wasn't in my bedroom anymore. My ceiling light and fan were gone, replaced with wall-mounted oil lamps. My carefully decorated room was gone and replaced with something that looked like the kind of rooms you'd see in textbooks about the 1800s. No, it couldn't be. I rushed out of the room in the dress, looking for any newspaper that could be lying around. As I was searching for anything that held a date I took in how the house looked. There was no electricity, instead, there were gas lights and candlesticks placed around to provide minimal light. I drew back the curtains and gasped at what I saw, I definitely knew I wasn't in the 21st century anymore. Some townhouses lined the streets, horse-drawn carriages, and people dressed in the same clothing I'd always admired. I turned around and saw a man staring back at me, sitting on the couch reading a newspaper. I rushed over and grabbed the paper, my eyes searching for the date. There printed in small letters was Monday, April 7th, 1845.

Soon I'd learn that Emilia's husband was killed not by another country's man, in fact, he barely had to fight back or ever left his town of residence. I'd experience why Emilia never married another man or the real reason she cried for months. Her husband was no sweet man that cared for her, he never cared about her, and he was killed in his own home. I never knew that the dress had a bigger story than just being made for her by him, there was a reason she never wore it again-because it was stained with blood the day her husband took his last breath.


	3. Part 2: The Dress that Turned Back Time

The man I yanked the newspaper out of asked me if I was okay. I cut him off before he could finish, firing questions left and right. He must have thought I was mental. He got up and put his hands on my shoulders, stared into my eyes, and told me to calm down. My heart was racing, I couldn't believe what was happening. He answered my questions one by one, he assumed I was just tired. I learned that my name was Emilia Margaret Johnson, I was 24, I was married to the man standing in front of me, and my best friend was our neighbor Anastasia Jameson. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My loud quick breaths caused him to repeat himself multiple times, something that clearly annoyed him. I quickly learned he wasn't a patient man.

After a week of living with this man that was supposed to be my ancestor's husband, I realized the real Emilia had gone through hell. He constantly went out drinking with his "mates" and expected me to have dinner ready by the time he came home. Not only was I still learning how things worked around the house but I had to do all the work. I got about two hours every day to talk to Anastasia and have a break.

There were little to no decorations around the home. I learned it was because when he came home from his nights with the mates he'd bump and stumble into everything and knock things to the ground. The vase that sat on a small table next to the door was knocked over on my second day in this new timeline. What I didn't expect was to be blamed and struck across the face with the back of his hand. I didn't know he would do such a thing when it was his fault, I fell to the floor after being struck in the face holding my cheek. After the first of the tears ran down my face I was ordered to clean up the mess, the small jagged pieces cutting my hands.

Throughout the week he'd yell at me for the smallest of things, the alcohol he consumed leading him to violence. When we were around others he'd be the sweetest man, holding my hand, even rubbing his thumb over my knuckles, and giving me small compliments. When we'd get home the smile on his face would fade and he'd order me to...do...things. It didn't matter how much I'd say no, he'd just hit me for every interruption of our "fun" time. I realized why our family thought he was a sweet man and that they had a "perfect" marriage. He had two faces: one that made me blush and giggle, another that made me scream and cry. My voice would go out every time I screamed, I learned to stop making noise after the third day.

By the time a week had passed things changed drastically. I thought the abuse couldn't get worse, I thought he would only hurt me when he was drunk. Eventually, he started to touch me in uncomfortable places throughout the house. I developed a flinch every time I felt his presence. Whenever he'd run his hand next to my face, stroking my hair, I'd flinch a little. The marks he'd leave started lasting days, I had to stop going out in the town so people wouldn't see my bruised face unless I had something that covered the purple and yellow bruises.

One day he came home late, later than usual. I was once again wearing the creme and blush pink dress. He told me to put it on before he came home, said he wanted to reward me. I knew the reward wasn't something I'd enjoy, I would later be wrong but not in the way one may assume. The light from our fireplace lit my face, glowing in the light. It outlined every curve in my face. The door swung open, banging against the wall and the force knocked down our new vase. I flinched at the nose and knew what the night would bring. I located anything I could use to fight back walking backward toward the fireplace pokers. He slammed the door closed, saying he didn't want the neighbors to hear our "fun".

He took small, stumbled steps toward me, his eyes looking at me like I was his prey-because I was. His body swayed back and forth like we were on a boat in the rough ocean waves. My heart pounded in my ears, I could only hear bits and pieces of his slurred speech. He kicked off his boots, he was three feet away from me. Each step he took, I took backward. He shrugged his coat off, two feet away. His smirk was outlined by the light emitted from the fireplace, I felt like I was in a horror movie. He started to unbuckle his belt and slide his pants down, one foot away. By this point my back was firmly placed against the wall, tears already running down my face. The fireplace pokers were grabbing distance from me, my hands balled into fists. By the time he stood in front of me and started to undo my dress, his hands knowing every nook and cranny of the detailed clothing, I started reaching my hand out for the only weapon I could reach. His left hand rested on my hip, by the time he knew what I was doing and started using his right hand to grab my arm it was too late. I yanked the still hot poker off of its holder, swung to my left, and struck him in the side of his head. He fell to the ground, his hand reaching to touch the blood that formed on his head.

For the first time in a week, I was in control. I almost felt bad looking into his eyes that only held fear but I thought about the times I was in his place, shaken up and terrified. I straddled him, my hands balled into fists. I started punching him, counting every blow at his face. I hit him as many times as he hurt me. Every time my fist hit his head, I thought about the times he touched me. I got up, grabbing onto the fabric of my blood-stained dress to lift the weight up. I walked over to the discarded poker, put it into the raging flames, and struck him in his side. I heard his scream for the first time that night. For the first time, I wasn't the one screaming. Part of me felt bad, I didn't know what came over me, but the other part of me knew I wasn't anywhere close to the amount of pain he afflicted on me these past weeks. Not long the screams died down, his fearful eyes shined with the light from the flames, and he stopped breathing. I watched him die, I watched as he cried out in pain and I didn't do anything.


	4. Part 3: The Dress that Turned Back Time

I stood for what felt like hours staring at what I did, tears running down my own face. It wasn't until I lifted up my hands when I realized what I did, blood ran down my hands to my elbows. I quickly ran next door to Anastasia's. When she opened the door she let out a gasp. She had seen me beaten and broken multiple times but this time I wasn't the one beaten up. She quickly rushed me inside, asking questions as to what happened to me. I told her the truth, leaving nothing out. She didn't seem scared of me, instead, she comforted me. I explained how he came in like a monster. It was clear to me that one of us was going to die that night and it wouldn't be me. I refused to be the one that died, I was the winner that night. I guess I did get my reward that night, the reward of revenge.

After sitting down on her couch with her arms wrapped around me in a hug she told me to go home and change. We were to talk in the morning about how to assess the situation. I ran back home, my hands grasping the fabric of the dress to not trip. I walked past my dead husband's body, a pool of blood surrounding his head, his side covered in boils from the burns.

I opened the door to our bedroom, walking over to the mirror. I stood, staring at myself in the mirror. I took a deep breath, taking in my appearance. My eyes were bloodshot from crying, my throat felt sore from yelling and screaming at him, the bruise from last night was evident on my cheek, blood was splattered on my dress, from my hands to my elbows was semi-wet blood. I placed my right hand on the mirror where the reflection of my face was, leaving a bloody handprint.

Once I turned around I gasped, a dull bedroom with wall-mounted oil lamps was gone, replaced by my ceiling light and fan. I couldn't help myself, I started tearing up at the sight of my bedroom. I turned around to look in the mirror and I was greeted by the appearance of my body from the 21st century, the bruises and blood gone. I turned around and jumped onto my bed, I was finally home.

I didn't tell anyone of my adventure, not even my grandmother. I didn't want to spoil what really happened between Emilia and her husband. He was no sweet man. He didn't really love her, he only loved the pain he inflicted on her body. He was a sadistic man that got off on pain.

The real twist was that Emilia was pregnant with his child before she killed her husband. It would be a baby girl named Anastasia. She named the child after the only woman who helped her. I found letters that Emilia wrote later in life when going through my grandmother's stuff in her attic. There was a lot of Emilia's stuff up there, things my grandmother didn't recognize but I did. Ever since my time traveling experience I wondered why Emilia didn't get rid of her child when she was pregnant. It wasn't because she wasn't allowed to, Emilia didn't listen to men's words after her husband's death, but because she wanted to raise a child to carry on her legacy. Emilia only had one child but she raised Anastasia into speaking up for herself and never to listen to another's words, especially a man's. She taught her daughter how to defend herself and never forced her into doing something she didn't want to do. I don't know what would have happened if Emilia didn't fight back that night, I don't like to think about it.

I still have the dress from that night, I haven't worn it since I worried that it would happen again. I have it on a mannequin in my living room. Sometimes I get flashbacks of that night when looking at it but then I remember how excited my grandmother was when she gave it to me. I did love the dress still but it would forever be in my mind as the dress that turned back time.


	5. Part 1: The 1800's Dollhouse Murder

I couldn't believe that only a few weeks ago my beloved grandfather passed away, five years after my late grandmother. I was told I had to clean out the attic and retrieve any items of value. It was a chore no one in the family wanted, the small, crowded attic held many of our ancestor's possessions. My favorite was this 1800s dollhouse that I played with until my mother told me I was too old for such childish things. What made this dollhouse so special wasn't just that it had been passed through my family, it was that each doll and furniture was made with such care and detail. I always wondered who made the beautiful house and toys. I'd pretend that a suitor had it made for me only, each detail a token of their love. I'd dreamed of true love after seeing my parents together, that was until my parents used their words for fighting and moved to separate bedrooms, I soon realized love could be shown in different ways, but there was no way to tell if that love was true.

When shuffling through the countless items in the attic I came across old portraits of my ancestors, each stroke of paint carefully placed and blended. My family had a tradition to keep their wealthy and popular image, they'd get a portrait or painting done of the family. This started way back in the 1600s when my family was discovered to live near lots of natural resources, quickly gaining money and built a business for themselves. It didn't matter if you didn't talk to the family anymore, if you got divorced, or were disowned because you would still appear in the portrait as a happy family, no one could know what truly happened behind that flash of the camera or stroke of paint. Most of the paintings were kept far away from any family estates, couldn't risk them getting damaged by anyone, the paintings cost more than our family's love for each other. I shuffled through the portraits, each person in the family's name was written on the back to show who was still alive along with the date. It was interesting to see how our family had changed and grown, the one thing most noticeable was that nobody smiled. My father once told me that smiles were a sign of weakness, I never understood how though.

I spent hours in that claustrophobic attic, organizing things and putting them into categories. Once I finished I turned around and saw the dollhouse I loved as a child. It clearly hadn't been cleaned for a long time, just like most things in the attic, covered in cobwebs and dust. I wanted to have one more moment with it, one without my overbearing mother's judgment. I carried the huge dollhouse down the stairs, each step carefully taken to not drop the family heirloom. Once I made it down to the main floor I set it on the dark walnut coffee table that was in the middle of the living room. I sat down on the deep red, velvet couch, almost sinking into the cushions. I had been exhausted from moving different items, I realized why nobody else wanted to go through our family's belongings that could be hundreds of years old. Before I knew it, I had shut my eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Little did I know that I wouldn't wake up in my body or the time period I was previously in.


	6. Part 2: The 1800's Dollhouse Murder

When I woke up from what felt like a million-year nap my body felt stiff, I couldn't feel anything. It was like my whole body was frozen into place, I could still hear, smell, and see but I couldn't touch anything or move. I immediately started freaking out, the issue was my heart wasn't pumping and I wasn't taking fast breaths. It was like my mouth was stuck in a constant smile. Nearly all of my face muscles were gone, it was like I had gone through immense plastic surgery.

When I opened my eyes I couldn't believe what I was seeing. In my line of vision, I could see a fairly big room, toys littered throughout. The room was obviously for a child, maybe a little girl between the ages of 4-8. It had lots of details and was clearly for someone with a lot of money, one could assume this child was loved. I would soon see it was all an image, there was no love in this room. Just the love of a little girl for her dolls who were the only ones to ever see the terror she would go through.

When I looked down, I wanted to gasp, I could see small porcelain feet. I was wearing a Victorian-style dress, made of cloth with small embroidery. I looked like I was from Little Women. As I looked around, standing in place, I could see I was smaller than my surroundings and came to realize I was in a tiny room. The furniture was designed for my size, I put it together I was in a dollhouse. I couldn't believe what happened to me, I no longer had control over my body.

I could faintly hear little footsteps in the background and hear a loud bang as the door to the room flung open. In came a little girl with light pink ribbons in her braided hair, wearing a light pink dress with ruffles and a white-collar. She had a pair of black shoes with white frilly socks, every mother's dream outfit for their little girl. She ran over to the dollhouse I and a few other dolls resided in, kneeling on the floor with a smile spread across her face. In the minimal light, I could almost see a purple bruise on her arm, just below the sleeve of her dress.

As soon as she kneeled on the floor, she started rambling. Her words went fast-paced, rarely taking a breath. I could catch a few words and names. I could hear the words desk, school, and Minnie. From what I could piece together in her fast-talking she just came back from school. I assumed she was telling us about her day but I couldn't understand her sentences. Finally, she started slowing down and I could understand. Apparently, a boy gave her a wildflower after class, she had to hide it in her school bag so her father wouldn't see.

After she finished talking she grabbed a doll and me around our waist, her hands grasping us tightly, and ran on over to a small table and chairs. The table had a specific design, it must have been made custom for her. On the small wooden table laid a tea set. Pink flowers and forest green leaves covered the ceramic set, each carefully painted to match her bedroom. She set us on the table, bending us into a sitting position. I could faintly smell the tea, the aroma smelled like a bouquet.

I was in a sitting position for what felt like a long time but I had no way of knowing if I was. The little girl placed small cakes in front of us dolls, it seemed like she intended for us to eat them. She spoke in a calm, steady, posh voice like the perfect English host. She would lift the cups to our still mouths like we were drinking from them. She would pause as if waiting for us to talk. I wondered what she thought we were saying in response.

After the tea party, she brought us back to the dollhouse. This was the first time I could properly view the dollhouse. It was quite large, with three floors. There was a closable wall, the exterior was handmade with small details, a silk blanket was partially covering the back as if the dollhouse was covered occasionally. The small Victorian home had plenty of furniture and tiny decorations, each handmade and painted. You could tell the furniture and extra dolls were all made by the same person, they all had a part of them that made it clear the person spent hours perfecting their craft. Someone had to care greatly about the little girl, everything was matching and made oh so carefully. I would eventually learn that they only cared greatly about the secrets the little girl and this room held along with the image of a perfect family.

Soon I heard loud footsteps, thunderous compared to the little girl's soft steps. A look of fear ran across the girl's face, her eyes going glossy, and quickly but carefully placed us back in the house and reached above to grab the silk blanket. She yanked it over, covering my line of vision and muffling the sounds from outside the dollhouse's protection. I could faintly hear the footsteps getting louder, the person was getting closer. I heard the door slam open, forceful like an intruder, and immediately it closed again. I could barely understand the voices and words spoken but I could identify a man's voice, I came to the conclusion it was her father's. He spoke harsh words, his footsteps stalking towards her. I could barely hear the little girl's fast breaths, she was terrified of this man. 

I could make out a name, Lydia, her name was Lydia. I heard her gasp as I saw his shadow grasp her shoulders and move her towards the bed on the opposite side of the room. I heard the sound of a belt unbuckling, the metal of the buckle clinking against each other like small bells, and could tell he had no good intentions. I heard the little girl's whimpers, my heartbreaking at the sound, and I could hear a faint," Papa please! Stop!" and a harsh, "Ah shut it!". He would do more than just punish the sweet girl, a part of her life she would never forget. I heard the belt slap her against her cheek and hit her fragile body. I wanted to help, do something, but I couldn't. I was useless at this moment, I couldn't even control my own body much less protect another. I could then hear the instructions for her to undress, if I had a heart in my body it would be pumping. I could almost hear her tears falling down her face like a waterfall, It was like I could smell salty tears.


	7. Part 3: The 1800's Dollhouse Murder

My heart was breaking, I couldn't even see the full image and my yearned to help the poor defenseless girl. I could...hear...everything. The sound of the bed hitting against the wall like a boat against harsh waves, the soft cries calling for help, and the father shushing her. I could only sit through the torture and pain. It felt like forever listening and seeing the shadows of the situation. This would become normal in this house. Every day after teatime the father would storm into the room and unleash his hidden rage. After he finished his sadism he would dress again, taking one of the ribbons in her hair into his pocket, and calmly say "I think you deserve a new bed for your doll's". Every day when I'd open my eyes in the morning, a new piece of furniture would occupy the dollhouse. I came to the conclusion quickly, he was grooming her into never releasing this hidden information with a new dollhouse addition. Once, when I was left in the study, I witnessed him painting a dining chair. It was the perfect size for dolls and I discovered who made all of the detailed additions. I would rarely catch a glimpse of the man's face but his malicious smirk haunted my head.

Soon I realized where I'd seen that smirk, it was in multiple paintings back in my grandparent's attic, I recognized the little girl's pigtails and her plastered smile. The thing that didn't make sense was I couldn't recall seeing a portrait of the little girl grown up, it was like she disappeared. I shifted through my head for any image of Lydia grown up but it simply didn't exist. I couldn't understand how this could happen. The father, Edward, was in the portraits along with the other residents of the manor but Lydia was missing. I didn't know what could have possibly happened to her.

I don't know how long I spent as a doll, I had no way of keeping track of the days, I never had any feeling in my body. The only thing I could track was how many times Edward hurt her, how many times he scarred her mentally and physically. I kept track of how many times Lydia would smile and how many times Edward would spread that terrifying smirk across his face. It was simple, he enjoyed what he was doing. I was disgusted, I wanted to throw up listening to him, he got off on his daughter's pain and screams. I watched as Lydia would be left alone in a quiet, dark room every night after her father's torture sessions. The only thing filling the silence was the sound of Edward slashing his belt, I couldn't get the sound out of my head.

Every day I'd have to witness the horrors of my ancestor's manor and the dark truth behind the dollhouse I loved just as much as a child,

Every day I'd hear the horrendous belt hit her body,

Every day I'd see the smirk that was burned into my mind,

Every day I'd hear the same promise of a new addition to the dollhouse,

Every day I'd hear Lydia crying herself to sleep,

And every day I saw Lydia plaster a smile onto her face before leaving her room that morning after carefully hiding the bruises and scars that were scattered across her body.

But one day, everything changed.


	8. Part 4: The 1800's Dollhouse Murder

That night Edward came in fuming, his face was as red as a tomato. Lydia didn't even get a chance to cover the dollhouse with the familiar blanket, I watched in horror as Edward yanked her by her pigtails. I had no protection, no sunglasses to protect my eyes from the solar eclipse. I thought it couldn't get any worse until I watched in HD. I could hear bits and pieces of the yelling and crying. I could hear the little girl sobbing as he hit her. I saw it all. I had no escape, no way of turning away. I had to watch with a permanent porcelain smile. The room was quieter than usual. Something went wrong. That night I didn't hear Lydia crying once her father left, she couldn't. I watched a look of fear go across Edward's face, it was a first. He rushed out of the room, didn't even close the door. He left his belt on the floor along with the rest of his clothing. I could see Lydia's ripped dress on the floor, her blue ribbons were strewn on the floor. I saw things that night that scared me more than anything. I wanted to cry, to scream for help but my face was frozen in place. I watched her take her last breath, I watched her chest stop rising. I watched it all. The screams echoed in my head, I could recall them bouncing off the walls.

Lydia didn't run to the dollhouse the next morning, didn't lift the blanket that shielded us from the horror, and didn't greet us with a smile that morning. We didn't have tea time. Instead, I watched as a new man walked into the room with Edward. I watched as Edward pointed at different parts of the room, instructing on what to do with each of them.

"Nobody can know what happened to her, I want everything thrown out, burned, or put in the attic"

"Yes sir"

I wasn't able to process what was happening as the door to the dollhouse shut, leaving me in darkness. I eventually woke up back on the deep red, velvet couch. I immediately sat up, my head flipping back and forth to take in my surroundings. I was back in my timeline. The dollhouse was still on the coffee table. I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want to touch it after what I witnessed. I rushed upstairs to the attic, heading for the portraits.

After the year 1878, Lydia ceased to exist. Her plastered smile wasn't on any future portraits. She died that night, she died by her father's hands as he raped and abused her. The sweet little girl with a heart of gold was murdered. Her father's bloody hands were printed on the dollhouse. That night she became a doll, her skin was porcelain as she could no longer do anything. She couldn't talk, move, or breathe. He took that away from her the night he killed her. He didn't even care, he removed any evidence of that night and pretended nothing ever happened. My family never spoke of the little girl in the portrait, nobody questioned why she disappeared. I did, after that night I couldn't get rid of the screams that echoed in my head. I did everything I could to make sure no little girl's life is forgotten. I worked to make sure that never happened to another sweet girl. I never forgot her name, I couldn't. I never forgot Lydia's name. I never had my own kids, I didn't want to contribute to continuing my family's wretched name. I changed my name the day after I woke up in my body. I didn't want my family's name anywhere near mine.

I watched a little girl take her last breath. She was one of my ancestor's and I watched her die. I'd never forget that.


	9. Part 1: Treats To Die For

When I was a kid I swore that I would start my own bakery after helping my mom bake cookies and all sorts of sweets. A year ago I started my dream with the help of my family and rented out a storefront. We used the money I saved up to make it into arguably the best looking bakery in my small town. Finally, my dream was a reality. Little did I know how hard business would be in my small town, something I never considered. I rarely had business throughout the day and soon I may have to pick up a part-time job to pay rent. My parents have tried convincing me to just give up and get a job at the company my father works for, I refused. I didn't want to give up yet, they told me they'd stop helping me pay for it by the end of the year if the business doesn't pick up. I'd do anything to stop that from happening.

One day, two months before the end of the year, my brother stopped by at 9 pm, just before I locked the doors to close for the day. He had clearly had a few too many drinks that night from the bar a block away from my bakery. His words slurred together, his eyes squinted at the light that hung above us, (the only light lit in the back of the bakery), he stalked towards me like a man on a mission, a drunk man at that. He started yelling, pushing his finger against my chest making me back up. I couldn't remember what he said that night, my heart beating and fast breaths were the only things I could focus on. I could see the light reflect off of an empty beer bottle in his hand, the light bouncing off and dancing towards the darkness. I could tell he wasn't going to stop, once when we went out as teens to get wasted I learned he was an angry drunk that wouldn't stop at anything, so I did what I had to do before he pushed me to death.

I could tell his drunk, dark thoughts were swarming in his head and no words could stop him from doing something he'd regret, so I did it instead. I grabbed the marble dough roller that was on the metal counter next to me and struck him over the head, I thought it'd only knock him out for a few hours-I didn't realize how hard I hit him.

It wasn't until I noticed his chest wasn't rising and falling or that he didn't have a pulse that I realized what I did. I didn't mean to take his last breaths, I didn't mean to hit him that hard, I certainly didn't mean to kill my brother-my childhood best friend who has always been there for me. I know he'd made mistakes and that he certainly didn't grow up to be our parent's dream lawyer or doctor but he was still my brother, the one who supported my bakery dream. I know I should have called the police, called someone, but I didn't know what to do in those moments.

So I did what I knew best, I baked.


	10. Part 2: Treats To Die For

I baked a batch of meat pies, pies that would be the reason my business boomed, and pies that helped me keep my bakery open. I guess you could say my brother supported me to the very end, and now he could support others.

That night I spent hours mutilating the body. My arms were sore from chopping, my legs sore from standing for hours, my eyes drooping from lack of sleep, and tears running down my face as I separated my brother's body into pieces. The bones were the hardest to remove, I wasn't sure what I would do with them. In the end, I put them into a bag in a hidden corner, making sure nobody could find them. I used the story that my brother called me when overdosing, I knew my parents wouldn't believe that my sweet brother was drunk and tried to hurt me. I told them I didn't know where he was and that he must have called from a burner phone, the phone number was unrecognizable and the connection was poor. His words broke up every few seconds and I could only hear the words "I'm sorry". The tears that ran down my face when telling the fake story were real, I was still shaken up from that night. My parents decided against a funeral, they didn't want people to know their perfect son had killed himself. I ended up paying for a grave, I buried his bones under a tree near the graveyard. I burned only parts of the body I couldn't cook in the woods 20 miles away from town, I could only hope people wouldn't pry into the story and find out what actually happened.

The hardest part wasn't getting rid of the evidence, it was watching people buy the pies and coming back for more. The sales were the only way I could keep my bakery open and I couldn't let my brother down or make this all for nothing. My bakery became a hotspot in the town, it was in multiple traveling blogs. I tried making the pies out of normal meat but they didn't sell as well so I knew what I had to do. I was careful not to hurt any innocents. I'd hang out at the bar and wait for creeps to hit on me. I'd then ask them if they wanted to go to my place, their creepy smirks made me sick, and I'd lure them into the back of the bakery. I almost felt bad hurting them at first, they were still people after all, but then they'd touch me inappropriately so I'd hit them. I'd hurt them so bad they'd start crying. I wasn't heartless, I did still feel bad, but I knew they'd made so many others feel like it was their fault for getting touched so I figured I was returning the favor. They were creepy men who liked hurting women so I knew they'd need a taste of their own medicine. After all, they did get made into delicious treats. Most of them didn't have a family so nobody asked questions about where they went, most figured they were so drunk that they'd died from intoxication.

I made sure to bury the extra body parts in different locations, sometimes I'd have to go so far it took a day to get back home. The process never got easier and it took a toll on my mental health. Sometimes I'd cry myself to sleep or not even sleep at all. I'd see their lifeless eyes in my nightmares, some days I screamed myself awake. I hated that this was how my life ended up and wished I wasn't so determined to prove my parents wrong but I wouldn't, couldn't, let my brother down.


	11. Part 3: Treats To Die For

One day a customer asked me what my secret ingredient was, she wanted me to give her the recipe. I told her I couldn't reveal my magic and I joked if I told her she'd take me out of business. That got me a chuckle but she was so...persistent. If only she knew curiosity killed the cat. She started taking guesses, "It has got to be pork or maybe beef. Come on...I won't tell anyone else". It reminded me of the words of one of the men I killed who was so touchy. He said he wouldn't tell anyone if I wanted to go home with him if only he knew how right he was that day. I told her to come back just before closing time and to stand next to the door behind the bakery. I carried on with my day until 9 pm. I turned off the lights, the only one lit was in the back, and opened the door to her excited face. I didn't want to kill her, I certainly didn't want to, but she was asking too many questions, making too many guesses. I told her to come inside, lead her to the same spot the previous ones stood, and I hit her with the same marble dough roller that killed the others. I felt bad, I almost cried over her body as long as I did with my brother's body. My heart ached, she never got the chance to ask for my secret again before I took her life.

I remember the call I had received after a few people found out about my brother's death. After I hung up the phone I cried until my eyes stung and my heart was broken beyond repair. I could never let anyone know about that day, it would be taken to the empty grave next to my brothers, six feet under the ground. My brother's death wasn't for nothing, I never let it be.

I didn't live for long after my business boomed. Eventually, the nightmares became too much, the guilt swarmed my heart and restricted it like a boa constrictor. In my last breaths, I whispered the words "I'm sorry" over my brother's grave. I killed myself over the grave that had the engraved letters of my brother's name. That night I overdosed, holding my brother's class ring and the same empty beer bottle my brother held in his dying moments. I took my secret to the grave and there was no explanation as to why I took my life. Blocks over from the graveyard was a burning building, the building my brother and others died in. I felt like it didn't deserve to stay standing and wanted it gone like me.

Who knows what happened after I died, what happened to the small town I lived in, or if anyone questioned the missing men but at least I proved my parents wrong. My bakery may have burned down but it went down with a bang, the same bang that rang in my ears after I took every life. At least now I could finally sleep in peace.

"Where's my brother? Oh, he overdosed last night....yeah, it's been really hard without him. *gulp* he's in our hearts? More than you'd think, you could say there's a piece of him in all of us....yeah, I should have a new batch of meat pies tomorrow, just need to grind up some more meat."


End file.
